If You Belonged Here

Sleep It Off

Okay, forgive the belatedness of this post. I am not asking, I am demanding. The Dol had an urgent need to vent her spleen and I could not conscionably stand in the way of that need. The point is: so this post is a little dusty. You don't really care. I'm not going to apologize. Let's just move on.

This is the way it is: sometimes all the sleep in the world only makes me more tired; sometimes sleep seems optional; and sometimes I just know if I got ten solid hours, I would wake feeling red-lipstick, go-go boots refreshed.

Not that I have go-go boots.

And not that I would mind if I did.

Anyway.

My eyes are burning. My lungs feel a little like I've breathed in too much canned fog. I've been walking into stuff that doesn't move, is always there--stuff that's long since been programmed into muscle memory and stuff that dwells in plain sight. You know, like walls. And the floor.

I thank Mr. Poppins for that.

No, really: I thank him.

I just got back from a whirlwind East Coast weekend complete with wedding, bbq, and bar crawl. Well, maybe not crawl, but there was a bar and if Diosa's dad--aka, Voted Best Looking--hadn't cut me off, I might have gone home crawlings. As it was I hung out in the jacuzzi with Diosa, her mom--aka, The Homecoming Queen--and Bookgirl. And then did it again the following night, substituting my cousin--aka Sunnybrook (as in Rebecca of--google it)--for The Homecoming Queen.

The roof of my mouth still hurts from atomic pizza eaten at 2 am. Or later. I wasn't exactly watching the clock. Anyway, The Homecoming Queen also made us cookies. At 2 am. Which is something she has done for us on and off for going on two decades, possibly longer if you are Diosa.

I just want to take a moment to reflect on how fabulous the Voted Best Looking and The Homecoming Queen are. Of course. Because Diosa, our resident goddess, could not have possibly come from standard issue stock. She is the product of high school royalty.

She's probably also annoyed that I'm pointing that out. But seriously. You can tell by looking at Diosa, so it's not like it's a secret or anything. Diosa practically has paparazzi.

Anyway, "I, we, and they" had a fabulous time. Up to and including the moment I had to rescue a thong from the intake filter of the jacuzzi. I used an empty beer bottle to extend my reach. I'd rather not say whose thong it was, except of course to mention that it wasn't mine. I was wearing a swim suit. Someone else forgot theirs and ultimately ended up in their birthday suit.

The thong was uncomfortable when wet. Or so I was told.

Fabulous.

So we behaved borderline inappropriately, I got to sleep in late the next day, and I packed about a week of fun into three days. I came home to a happy, healthy Secret Lulu and a surprisingly clean kitchen. Except for the jello on the floor.

But besides that.

Mr. Poppins is my hero. And then he made me coffee.

If I am ever in a position to make it happen, I am having a major landmark named after Mr. Poppins. Possibly a bridge. Diosa may feel similarly about Blackstone, as he kept their spawn from setting themselves or anything else on fire while she slept at Bookgirl's house.

Diosa can write her own post. She often does. I like that about her.

Again. Moving on. To other things entirely. Talk amongst yourselves.

The Dol: Don't Let The B*stards Get You Down

So, back in the day, I dated a guy who stood me up about ninety percent of the time. I dated him for a solid year, maybe a little longer.

Why, you might ask, would a young lady with sterling dating credentials, such as I had, stick around for that? 

Well, b*stards like the one I dated keep rolling out all the ways they suck in a slow and steady stream, allowing you to adjust to one unsavory behavior at a time, so that before you know it, you're ok with having his ex-wife answer the door when you show up for dinner. Oh, and you're holding a roll of toilet paper for some reason that eludes you right now, and you feel like you're the one who needs to come up with an explanation.

I learned a few lessons from that b*stard. 

First, if someone stands you up, they need an iron-clad reason, and they don't get to do it again. 

Second, everyone has a certain number of grandparents. Each of them can only die once, hence they are only good for a certain number of "I had to go to a funeral" excuses.

Third, and this may shock you old-fashioned types, it is perfectly acceptable to break up with someone via e-mail. B*stards who don't show up for their own breakup don't get to be all choosy about that crap. With the advent of texting and Facebook, I'm sure you could adapt the media to suit your needs. Would that we could simply de-friend people from our lives.

Fourth, ok, that third one has a caveat: the b*stard won't like the e-mail breakup, and e-mail is great for passive-aggressive nastiness. And you just know that the b*stard is skilled in the fine art of passive aggression. Be prepared for a stream of insulting, pleading, and possibly threatening e-mails to come your way. 

If you block the b*stard's e-mail address, be prepared for the b*stard to cleverly create a new one so that he can continue harassing you about the box of junk he left in your spare room. Never mind that you have offered to leave the junk outside the door while you're at work for him to pick up. (Hint: throw the box in the dumpster, or, better yet, have a bonfire with your friends and get bombed while you curse his name.)

Because the point isn't about being reasonable when it comes to the b*stard. The point is about him having power over you. Once it hits the fan with this person, there will be no compromise and no quarter. There's only one way you can win, and that is to walk away. No matter what lies are hurled at you (or, embarrassingly--at co-workers, friends, or family members), you keep your mouth shut and your fingers off the keyboard.

So. One would think that, having learned these lessons about the b*stard, I would recognize one when I saw one again. 

I, apparently, am a sucker.

The b*stard showed up in my life again, this time not as a 6'5" black man with a bald head, but as a charming, attractive woman whom I knew only vaguely through political activism.

This time, the b*stard didn't want to date me or stand me up, she wanted to get me to organize a completely pointless meeting so that she could hear about another meeting that I was literally still in the middle of attending. It's boring, geeky, political stuff. The ten of us in the world who love this crap all know each other, and we like to have wild times, like a couple of weeks ago when we got together to freak out about how completely awesome the new party controller is. And this one time when we all licked stamps and mailed stuff.

It's not for everyone.

Anyhow, the new b*stard initially wanted me to hold a grand, public meeting, in which "disinterested Democrats" could come and hear about the process. They would then, apparently, be magically transformed into voting, blog-reading, single-payer advocates with MoveOn.org bumperstickers affixed to their, and their offspring's foreheads. I've done this before and quite frankly, it failed. Because the "disinteresed Democrats" happen to be disinterested. Or, like the interested Dems, they would have gotten active during the Obama campaign.

So, yeah, I said no thanks to spending 8 kajillion hours planning that failfest.

In an effort to disengage from an annoying Facebook conversation in which the new b*stard urged me to "listen to the people" or she would "take it to the streets," I offered to put the b*stard on my personal, you'd-have-to-love-me to read the reports, e-mail list. She could, among other geeky gems, mine my geeked out political updates on the aforementioned meeting. She wanted on the list.

At this point, I'm thinking I'm done. Oh, not even close. Remember that bit up above about what the b*stard really wants? Right, power over you. I forgot that little bit, or I would have proceeded directly to my fourth rule and just ignored her as soon as she asked me to do something stupid and pointless.

I'm just going to give you the Cliff's Notes version of the rest of the story:

E-mail arrives from b*stard, who has cc'ed a dozen other people, cheerfully inviting them onto my personal e-mail list. B*stard is asked to cease and desist. E-mail arrives from b*stard comparing me to movie star who doesn't something or other blar blar constituents, ruining of democracy, etcetera, etcetera. Second e-mail arrives from b*stard, cc'ing party leadership, accusing me of brutal dictatorship and genocide. B*stard has truly shocked me at this point, and, ok, I admit I might have cried just a little. The b*stard hurt my feelings, for crying out loud. After all, I only ever committed that one genocide but I was only a teenager and I don't think it's fair to hold it against me now.

It took me a good day, but I gathered my senses and realized that I was dealing with the b*stard again. 

I defriended the new b*stard on Facebook. You better believe she didn't like that maneuver. For now, at Polly's advisement, I haven't blocked her e-mails. Any engagement would only encourage the bastard. No need to fan the flames. And I have a pathological need to know if she's saying bad things about me.

Not really. I just don't want to miss out on the group announcements.

I admit that the b*stard had me on the ropes. Again. It was humiliating and a little horrifying to have her question my integrity to friends and colleagues of mine. But when I realized that it wasn't about me, really, it was about someone looking for a little square foot of power, I was able to just walk away from the discussion. Because there's no reasoning away crazy.

I prefer to use my energy to keep fighting the real evil powers of the universe, one for-profit health-care plan at a time. 

Set My Sights on Monday

This seems a little apropos because Pandora, the Music Snob, just told us all about her music and, low and behold, the only post I have archived is from June 5th and it's about music, so let's talk about it.

Music is mood. I've spent many a day arranging the soundtrack of my life, if my life were to happen to be made into a movie, which is currently not in the works somehow. A fact that never ceases to shock me.

But there's a song that's just right for every mood. I baseline at "Sister Golden Hair:" 

"well, I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damned depressed,
that I set my sights on Monday, and I got myself undressed."

If I'm sad, I'm more "Wish You Were Here," If things are going my way, "Close to Me," and if I am determined that regardless of present reality, things will go my way because I will make them whether they like it or not, then it's "Santa Monica."

It's actually "Santa Monica" quite a lot. On second thought, maybe I baseline there.

Whatever. There are certain songs that make everything seem like it's happening in slow motion, other songs that speed time up, and a few that freeze time altogether. I usually know which one I'm feeling.

If I'm dancing in the shower it's probably true that I'm feeling a drunken-dj mix of "Gold Digger" and "Sexy Back" but, quite frankly, I have no desire to share the details of that information with you other than to say that this weekend there was a lot of shower dancing and it seemed like a lie of omission to not include these songs.

Moving on.

I've never been a music snob. Not in the traditional sense. I will walk off the dance floor if someone spins "Holiday" by Madonna, but that's not actually snobbery, more of a visceral reaction or a reflex, like gagging or sneezing. I hardly notice it happens. Also, "Careless Whisper" by George Michael makes me feel like I've just been violated.

I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate---did I mention "hate"--that song. I am absolutely positive I hate no song more, although "Roxanne" is only mildly better. I cannot believe that anyone listens to them, let alone enjoys it. Being swarmed by fire ants is more appealing.

I'm going to have to take a moment to twitch.

Okay.

Mostly I have favorites out of every single genre, with the possible exception of death metal, but only because it makes my ears bleed. Oh, and techno is maybe wonderful when one is heavily drugged--I don't know.  I do, however, know techno to be impossible to tolerate under any state of consciousness I've experienced up until now. But I digress.

I will listen to alternative, pop, rock, blues, soul, country, metal, classical, decade genres (not anything that can be played on a phonograph, the vocals creep me way out), and world music. Children's music, too. I'm flexible. However, there are whole swaths of popular songs I've never heard because three notes into the music, I switch stations. I can tell instantly whether I will hate a song.

I hate lots--every genre, every decade. So instantly and without reflection, are undesirable songs dismissed,I can't even tell you what the names of the songs are. I wouldn't recognize them if I heard them in an elevator. Those songs are not only dead to me, they were never born. Now, I realize I have named two songs that I hate but those among you who are quick with timelines will realize that I had to listen to those songs if only because  I was a child and my mother chose the car radio station.

That doesn't happen anymore.

It also rarely happens anymore that I feel my life is a movie, complete with a soundtrack, and that other people exist only to be extras in my drama/comedy/satire/romance/mystery/horror/whatever. I don't need the privacy afforded to one by a headset and a mix tape. I don't need to drown out the world or my parents or create an individual head space for myself.

And even if I did, I simply no longer have that luxury.

Except for when I'm dancing in the shower but, remember, we promised not to discuss that.

Until Pandora came along, I hadn't heard, or at least noticed, a new song in years. That may be an exaggeration but if it is, it's not by much. But lately I've got more time to notice, and lately I feel like humming and singing again, and lately I feel like maybe I forgot that this is my life, I am the star, and the ending will be happy and glorious and there will be a kick-*ss song playing during the credits, probably by Death Cab for Cutie (thank you, Pandora).

Oh, and the out-takes will be hilarious.